a picture postcard for the road
it has been another nice day. the weather is nice in this city, through these windows, from that war-torn foreign sea. it keeps the moons in alignment. it keeps the thighs from quite touching in the middle. it keeps the violin strings well tuned to a dramatic verse. he really ought keep a diary of the weather. the way it passes is as important, more important, than most anything else he’s ever written about. and it is, and has been, and will forever be. on days it will be warm, and on other days it will be cold. the rodents and insects endure regardless. we brutish mammals cower in it, chop out our tonsils, boil chicken skin and call it soup. he is a pretty boy, but he is also a virtuous, masculine boy, and he cannot take sleights against his character lightly. and he cannot be too pretty, or else he won’t ever be able to play with the mean boys. and he’s mean, too. the meanest. but the worst kind of mean. the tricky under-the-skin mean. he’d never let on. so in spite of his essential yearning to define that which is beautiful, he must also roll up his fisticuffs and paint himself a warrior. he must show himself capable of violence. and he must, in turn, be violent. if only he could be a soldier… what an experience that ‘war’ must be. what a truthful lifestyle. what a noble way to die. they tell us that christ died for us; who hasn’t? for one of us, at least. for the dark one out. the puddle.
that warm, compassionate night, with those warm, mindful stars twinkling in that yonder effortless ab aeterno. warm as it is down here, it’s never been colder up there. and the horizon will always remain just in sight but impossible to reach, like an optical illusion, some spinning tricks to bring about aporia. when this happens, he sits, and enjoys the rest of his chocolate bar.